


Friends vs. Cubicles

by SunnyBlue



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Super Sons (Comics)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Gen, Hugs, Hugs are good, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Protective Damian Wayne, Sweet, but like also they're kids, readable with shipping goggles, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:35:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24009700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunnyBlue/pseuds/SunnyBlue
Summary: Damian is stuck patrolling in Metropolis with Jon, bored out of his mind because nothing ever happens here and there's so much going on in Gotham that's actually important. So maybe he's being a little meaner than usual; it's not a big deal.That is, it's not a big deal until he investigates a building and ditches Jon outside, and hears something he wishes he'd never had to: a ragged scream in an all-too-familiar voice.
Relationships: Jonathan Kent/Damian Wayne, Jonathan Samuel Kent & Damian Wayne
Comments: 6
Kudos: 211





	Friends vs. Cubicles

**Author's Note:**

> I changed it up!! This one doesn't even MENTION Tim!! Literary diversityyyyyy

Damian hates tonight.

He hates it because his father is out there in Gotham rounding up escapees from a full-on Arkham Breakout — complete with Riddler puzzles and incompetent police and the dulcet tones of Penguin and Two-Face yelling at each other like toddlers — and Damian is stuck here patrolling a crimeless Metropolis with  _ Kent.  _ Yeah, Corn Cob is his partner and everything, but come on, can’t the kid handle his own city for once? There’s  _ important _ work to be done in Gotham, and Damian is disgusted to have his talents wasted here on a night like this.

They’re sitting on a rooftop, Jon chattering endlessly about a kickball game or some other stupid thing from school today, when a flash of blinding green light floats in a wave out from the top floor of a building a few blocks down, shattering all the windows. Instantly, Damian is on his feet, a smug grin tugging at his lips. Finally, some  _ action!  _ He dashes to the edge of the roof and pulls out his binoculars to get a better look.

Jon walks up behind him a moment later, crunching a potato chip loudly. Damian’s shoulders tense; not only is the sound grating on his ears and nerves, but also the kid is obviously going to end up getting them both killed with his carelessness. Damian turns and smacks the bag out of his hands, and Jon yelps a “Hey!” as the chips scatter and the bag starts to blow away. He chases after it and stuffs it into his pocket with a scowl. “What was that for?”

Damian glares. “We have  _ work  _ to do, Kent.” He turns back to the building and misses the little flash of disappointment that crosses Jon’s face; Damian hasn’t called him by his last name in a while. He thought they were past this, that they were closer than this by now, but… well, maybe his Bat-Buddy is just having a bad day. It happens. 

Jon moves to stand beside him. “So what’s the move?” He asks, smiling lopsidedly and placing his hands on his hips.

Damian just glares harder. “Take this seriously,” he hisses, and Jon has to really work to keep the hurt out of his eyes. He thought they were past this, too.

In his head, Damian knows he’s being harsh with Jon, but he can’t help it; he’s just so frustrated with how tonight has gone — and besides, the kid could always use the discipline anyway. It’s not a big deal.

Jon swallows and nods. “Right. Sorry.”

And now Damian feels guilty. Great. Damian _really_ _doesn’t_ _like_ feeling guilty for things, especially when they’re actually his fault. Thanks, Jon. He sets his jaw and rolls his eyes to keep himself from softening. He can’t afford to right now. “Whatever. Just get to work,” he says, aiming and adjusting his grapple and not meeting Jon’s eyes. “I’ll take the upper floors. You keep watch outside.”

Jon does a real double-take. “Wh— stay  _ outside?”  _ He crows, because this is getting ridiculous. Damian is treating him like a toddler for no reason  _ and  _ he’s trying to go into an unknown situation without backup. “I’m going with you!”

Damian whirls on him, eyes narrowed dangerously, and Jon has to fight against the urge to take a step back. “I said _stay outside,”_ Damian growls, clearly losing patience. He jabs a thumb at himself aggressively. _“I’m_ in charge here, and _I_ say you stay outside. Understood?”

Jon blinks away the prickle of tears behind his eyes, but he’s sure they look watery anyway, because Damian’s face hardens even more. He doesn’t approve of shows of weakness like crying. Jon’s lip quivers and he folds it into a line to keep it still. “What is your  _ problem?”  _ He hisses, mostly succeeding at keeping his voice even. “I haven’t done anything to tick you off and you’re being mean anyway!”

Damian scoffs dismissively, which somehow hurts even more than the rude words. Isn’t his partner supposed to be the person who’s always got his back? A dismissal doesn’t feel very  _ supportive.  _ “I’m not being  _ mean,  _ Kent, I’m being  _ real.  _ Now we have work to do and you’re going to  _ stay outside  _ and  _ not _ get in my way _.” _

Jon looks away and sniffs, finally nodding stiffly. Damian nods back, sharp and calculating, and immediately turns and steps off the building, shooting forward with his grapple. Jon takes to the air and watches carefully to make sure Damian doesn’t need any catching before he swipes at his eyes and sighs, trying to iron the tears out of his system. God, he can really be such a crybaby sometimes, huh?

Damian slips inside the building halfway up through a ventilation grate and Jon switches to thermal vision to be able to track his movements. But the second he does, he realizes that something is… wrong. He can’t see Damian’s heat signature at all, can’t really see anything but a weird, wobbling green aura engulfing the block. 

Confused, Jon touches down on the roof and pulls his comm out of his pocket, shoving it uncomfortably into his ear. “Robin, are you there?” He says, and he gets no answer. He tries looking into the building again but only sees the green, growing ever brighter the longer he looks. He bites his lip as he switches back to normal vision. “Robin, you hearing me? Something is weird with this building, I can’t—” Jon is cut off with a gasp as something collides with his skull from behind, something heavy and almost unearthly to be able to disorient him as much as it does. He goes to turn around but suddenly finds himself flat on the ground, convulsing with the jolts of electricity that tear through his body. A moment later it stops, and he gasps raggedly for air that he can’t pull into his lungs. His hand instinctively goes for the comm but his fingers don’t cooperate, so he settles for turning his ear to the ground and hoping that helps somehow. “D…” he chokes out, “D, I need… need help…” 

Another shock goes through him and his world goes black.

. . . 

So far Damian hasn’t found anything but file cabinets and cubicles, which is annoying, but he’s pressing on towards the top floor with it’s broken windows. He’s  _ sure  _ there’s something there’s something crazy that’ll totally impress Batman, and—

A faint sound, like a whine or a distant scream, comes from his pocket. Confused, he pulls out his comm and studies it in his hands for several moments, but nothing seems to be broken or damaged at all, so he moves to put it back and keep dutifully ignoring it and ignoring the twinge of Jon-related guilt in his chest. And of course, just before it disappears into his belt, he hears another sound, closer to a voice, and automatically places the device into his ear.

_ “D, I need… need help…”  _

A gasp. And then a long, ragged scream.

Damian’s blood stills in his veins. “Superboy?” He calls urgently. “Superboy! Report!” He gets no reply. His eyes dart around frantically and he starts running for a window to break through so he can get to his friend’s last location when another sound comes through the small device.

_ “Hello, Robin. I’ve heard a lot about you.” _

His eyes widen and he feels his fist shake at his side. “Who is this?” He barks, rage threatening to overwhelm him. “What did you do to him?”

_ “Why, this is Brainiac, dear boy,”  _ says the haunting voice, and tendrils of icy fear grip at Damian’s heart and begin pulling it down into his rolling stomach.  _ “And I suppose what I do is up to how quickly you find him. I’ll give you a hint: we’re towards the top. Time runs short, you know.” _

His breath catches — he  _ can’t  _ let anything happen to Jon _. _ He won’t. “What are you doing?” He snaps, hating the shake of his voice as he races towards the next staircase. He’s about three floors from the top; if he just keeps this freako talking, he can make it to Jon before he gets hurt — if he isn’t already. The thought makes anger roil through his stomach. “Why are you doing this?” That one’s a long shot, but sometimes villains really do monologue out their entire plan if you just have the guts to ask for it, and that’ll buy him some time. Of course, Damian isn’t really listening to the responses; his brain is nothing but a frantic chorus of  _ find Jon, find Jon, find Jon…  _

And he does find him, on the top floor of the building with its shattered windows. Damian skids around the corner of the staircase and he can’t stop the gasp from leaving his throat, because Jon is there, suspended inside a huge clear tube that looks like it would take someone on a water park ride from hell. He’s bound by the wrists to the top of the chamber, completely limp and horribly pale as he dangles lifelessly above the metal ground. His shackles, the chains that pin his arms and legs, are growling a sickly green.

Kryptonite.  _ No. _

Damian can’t tell if he’s breathing.

He curses and scans the room between them and a ball of unease grows in the pit of his stomach when he finds no traps. Cautiously, he scans Jon, too — and the DNA matches up. It’s him. Something is very, very wrong here.  _ This is a bluff,  _ part of his brain says, and another part replies,  _ but I can’t take that chance. _

The decision is made for him when he hears odd crackling sounds for a moment before Jon suddenly convulses and  _ screams,  _ electricity flowing through his body. It’s gone an instant later and the boy is left gagging out pained whimpers like a dying animal, and Damian is across the room in an instant, hands pressed desperately to the glass. 

“Superboy?” He hisses, gritting his teeth. Jon doesn’t answer, doesn’t move, and Damian  _ really  _ doesn’t like how still he is. Jon’s a very tactile person, energetic, always moving and laughing and singing and dancing, and this… Jon should never look like this.  _ Never.  _ It shakes him to his core. “J, wake up. Superboy!” 

Jon groans, his head lolling over to his shoulder, and Damian calls his name again, his teeth grinding together as he resists the impulse to pound his fist on the glass. Slowly, blue eyes fall open and meet his — they’re glassy and distant, and Damian is seriously considering breaking his father’s rule and killing Brainiac because his best friend is in  _ pain _ . “...D?” Jon rasps, and his voice is wrecked, and Damian’s knuckles go white with pressure against the glass.

“It’s me,” he replies, trying to keep his voice gentle. “It’s gonna be okay. I’m gonna get you out.”

“...Hurts, D…”

Damian is  _ definitely  _ going to kill Brainiac. “I know. I know, J. I’m gonna get you out. Stay with me.”

Jon grunts an affirmation and lets his head fall back to his chest as Damian goes to work on the glass, pulling tool after tool out of his belt, but even his blowtorch doesn’t make a dent. The glass must be reinforced; he needs a weak point. He sets his gauntlet computer on scanning the trap, on finding one, but it says nothing for entirely too long. He growls in frustration and is about to just try taking a metal pipe to the glass when a haunting voice comes from behind him. 

“I see you’ve found your friend.”

Damian whips around, instinctively shifting in front of Jon to face the green creep in front of him. Absolute fury latches a hook into his chest and  _ pulls,  _ and he feels his teeth clenching hard enough to crack. He’s lucky he doesn’t have any crowns. “Let him  _ go,  _ you ugly freak!” He snarls, voice laced with a venom unheard of even for him.

Brainiac gives a bored sigh as if Jon doesn’t even  _ matter.  _ “Oh, I might’ve, little bird — he was only a fun little distraction to draw you away from all the data I’ve stolen from this building. But now you’re being rather rude, and I don’t believe that’s a very good way to respect your elders.” He hums. Damian sees red. “It looks to me like your time with him will soon come to an end,” Brainiac says. A metallic clunking sound comes from the glass tube and Damian whips around to see that water is suddenly pouring in from the bottom. Damian’s heart is pounding.  _ No.  _ “Goodbye, Robin,” Brainiac says, and he disappears out a window, and Damian doesn’t even care because the water is rising  _ fast _ and Jon is  _ in there  _ and he can’t  _ get out.  _

He rushes forward, panic shooting painfully through his bones, and pounds his fists on the glass. “Jon!” He shouts, uncaring of the codenames because Brainiac is gone and his best friend is trapped and it’s _Damian’s fault._ If he hadn’t made Jon stay outside by himself… if he had just let him come along like a _partner would…_ he grits his teeth harder. There’ll be time to hate himself later; right now he has to save his friend. 

“Hey! Jon, look at me.  _ Look. _ ” The water is already at his knees where he dangles in the air, strength and energy sapped away by the sickly green chains. Jon’s head rolls around again to look at him, and Damian feels more fear cloud his blood with the realization that his lips are turning blue. He’s been in there too long. This much radiation could kill a full Kryptonian in an hour, but Jon is only half… how long could he possibly have? 

“D… ’s cold…” the boy coughs raggedly. 

Damian is crouching down and fumbling for his gauntlet computer, pushing it to analyze the glass faster; the water is up to his friend’s chest. “Don’t talk, Jon,” he snaps, and he doesn’t mean for it to be harsh but he  _ needs  _ him to save his breath. “Just hold on.”  _ Why won’t the computer go any faster?! _

The water is at his neck, and Jon grunts as he struggles to lift his head away. “D-Damian… I…”

“Don’t,” Damian hisses, ignoring the slight blur in his eyes. “I’m gonna get you out.” He looks up at his friend and sees his eyes rolling, skin tinting green with the influence of the kryptonite. In an instant he’s on his feet, pressed onto his tip-toes as close to Jon’s face as he can get —  _ damn his short legs.  _ “No, don’t—” he tries, bashing the glass with an open palm. The boy’s eyes are dangerously close to only showing white. “Jon, stay with me. Jon!” The water is at his chin; they’re out of time. Damian resists the need to cry out. “Hold your breath!” He shouts urgently, and Jon must hear him because he takes in a shaking, rattling gulp of air just before the water covers his nose. It isn’t enough; Jon’s body is fighting it, panicking without his permission. 

The sound of him thrashing weakly against his restraints makes Damian want to cry. He tries to tell his friend to calm down, to settle, but the water is too much and Jon’s energy is too far gone and Damian can’t do anything but watch and  _ ache.  _ Finally, his gauntlet computer chimes, pinpointing a weak spot in the glass right on the bottom edge where the water seems to be pumped in from. Without a second thought Damian rushes to torch it along the displayed groove of the material, to shatter it, and it’s— it’s taking too long, he can’t—… he can’t…

Jon can’t hold his breath anymore. Damian watches him writhe helplessly as his remaining air goes toxic in his lungs and bursts out of him; his body jerks and takes in water, and his eyes widen in pain and fear before they suddenly go completely, terrifyingly blank, blue eyes glassy and dull and unseeing as the boy’s mouth hangs open and his soft black hair drifts listlessly around his small face. It’s an empty shell.

A shell of his best friend.

Damian has never felt this much pain in his life, never felt failure slam through him this hard. He screams wordlessly, pleading for Jon to wake up, hold on,  _ come back, _ and suddenly the glass is cracking all too late and the water is rushing out and away, and by the time Damian can look up Jon is hanging lifelessly by his wrists, head lolled forward and hair plastered to his face. His chest isn’t moving.

_ “No,” _ Damian chokes out, crawling forward and into the shattered tube, forcing himself to his feet and fisting his hands in the front of Jon’s shirt. His forehead falls against his friend’s chest and his shoulders shake with grief. The S on Jon’s costume is darkened with the water, soft farmhouse cotton gone tight and clingy and unfamiliar. Damian is crying. He knows that. He doesn’t care. He just wants his friend back, please,  _ please give him back…  _

Carefully, gently, unable to still his trembling fingers, Damian cups his hands around Jon’s horribly pale cheeks and lifts his head. His eyes have fallen closed, and Damian can’t stop a whimper from escaping his throat. Damian Wayne doesn’t _ whimper.  _ He doesn’t  _ cry.  _ He’s not  _ weak.  _ But… but Jon is worth changing for. Jon is worth anything _ , everything,  _ and Damian just lost him. He swallows a sob and presses two fingers under Jon’s jaw — stupid wishful thinking — and there’s noth—

Wait. No. No, no, wait.

It’s there. Barely, thready and faint and racing, but real. He feels it. Jon is still alive. The sun is still up. He can still save him.  _ He can still save him! _

With a harsh gasp he yanks a batarang from his belt and angrily smashes the kryptonite shackles around his friend’s wrists. The boy falls and Damian catches him — he will always, _always_ catch him — but he can’t stop, can’t take a breath or a pause because Jon is _alive_ and Damian will do damn near anything to keep him that way. He gathers his friend roughly into his arms and makes a mad dash for the roof access staircase, thanking whatever tiny mercy has put them on the top floor of this godforsaken building. He kicks open the door with a mildly hysterical growl and emerges into the light of the setting yellow sun, collapsing to his knees as soon as they’re away from anything that might even _think_ about casting a shadow. 

He lays Jon flat on the gravel roof and grips his shoulders, and, with a muttered apology, slams his elbow into his friend’s solar plexus. The boy’s body jerks and water shoots out of his mouth, eyes darting open as his hands fly up to clutch at his chest. Damian catches them and his grip holds fast against his weakened friend; he uses the anchor point to roll him into his side, rub his back gently as he hacks up more water than anybody should really be able to have in their lungs. Damian says nothing, just breathes and listens to Jon breathe, because— because nothing else matters. Jon is alive. He’s breathing. Damian  _ saved him.  _

Finally Jon coughs a few times and it’s dry, and Damian gingerly rolls him onto his back again, carefully prodding his fingers around his friend’s chest and throat and abdomen and Jon lets him, lying limp in the sunlight with his eyes closed as his heaving, panicked breathing slowly evens out and grows stronger. Damian concludes that he’s beyond weakened and is probably in a fair amount of pain, but there’s no long term damage done — he’ll be okay. He’ll be okay. 

Damian releases a broken, half-sobbed sigh of relief and takes one hand away from Jon’s shoulder to press into his eyes, gritting his teeth against the trembling of his lips and lungs and heart. But then there are fingers — small, warm, familiar — wrapped around his other wrist, and he pulls his hand away from his face to look.

Jon is looking up at him, eyes blinking half-open tiredly, and they’re blue and bright and Jon is really behind them and they’re the best thing Damian has ever seen. “Damian…” Jon mutters, exhausted and disoriented, but he appears to at least sort of remember what happened. “H-Hey, D, it’s okay… it’s okay…”

This stupid lovable idiot. 

Scoffing to cover a sob, Damian wraps one arm around Jon’s back and the other around his shoulders to cradle his head, and then drags him half-upright with his legs still sprawled on the rooftop, and he clings to him in the tightest hug he’s ever given in his life. Without a word, Jon hugs back, arms snaking around his friend’s waist and squeezing weakly because that’s all he can give right now. His head lolls into the crook of Damian’s shoulder and he lets himself take in the familiar Wayne Manor scent of oatmeal cookies and breakfast tables and worn wooden floors, relaxing in his best friend’s arms. “It’s okay…” he repeats quietly, almost for himself.

But Damian shakes his head quickly. “No, it’s not,” he says shakily, sounding so unlike himself, and he hugs Jon tighter to him, savoring the feeling of his friend’s chest rising and falling against his own. “It’s not okay. It’s… I thought…I thought you…” he can’t finish the sentence.

Jon understands. Drawing on what little strength he’s regained from the sun, he moves his head and pushes Damian’s back just enough to be able to look him in the eye. He’s crying, deep green eyes shiny and wide and terrified. Jon has never seen him cry. And now Jon is crying, too, tears rolling gently down his cheeks for all the pain he’s caused his friend. “I know, D. I know. But I’m okay. I’m here.”

Damian opens his mouth and pauses before closing it and swallowing hard, looking up at the sun and blinking tears out of his eyes and down his cheeks. “Jon, I—” he starts, but he has to stop to exhale breathily. He swallows again, unable to look away from the sun, unable to meet his friend’s eyes. “I-I’m sorry about before, I… I…”

“It’s okay, Damian,” Jon says again, and Damian kind of wants to punch that kind, understanding look off his face because he just doesn’t know how he does it, how he forgives and and empathizes and loves so easily. He doesn’t know why he’s chosen  _ Damian,  _ of all people, the killer, the know-it-all, the arrogant jerk, to give all that forgiveness and empathy and love to. All he knows is that Jon  _ has  _ given that to him. And Damian knows that he has to hold onto his friend and keep him safe forever, not because someone told him to or because he owes him anything, but because he wants to. And today he almost failed. 

Damian sniffles, burying his face in Jon’s chest and hunching his shoulders. He feels gentle fingers carding through the back of his hair and for once he allows it, even pushes his face closer, listens to the strong heartbeat beneath the S. He tries again to actually speak his feelings, for once in his life. “You were… the kryptonite, a-and the water and… I couldn’t… I thought…” He lets out a frustrated grumble. Why can’t he ever say what he means? Why can’t he just  _ connect _ the way Jon does?

But Jon doesn’t need him to connect the way he does; he needs him to be himself. He needs  _ Damian.  _ The younger boy shakes his head, risks resting one hand on the side of Damian’s face, and his friend tenses for an instant before relaxing into the touch faster than he usually does, leaning back a bit to look him in the eye. Jon feels a spark of pride in his chest. “This wasn’t your fault, Damian.” The older opens his mouth to protest and Jon shakes his head again. “No, D, it  _ wasn’t your fault.  _ Please, please don’t think it was. It was Brainiac’s plan from the start — it was going to happen the second we went into that building. Why else would he make chains specially out of kryptonite?” Damian’s hands shake with anger and Jon stills them gently, his palm still carefully holding his friend’s face as he fights exhaustion. He’s comfortable and warm here, wrapped in a hug in the middle of this rooftop with his best friend, and it’s becoming harder and harder to fend off the sleep his body craves to heal. He nods decisively. “It wasn’t your fault. You  _ saved _ me, D. Everything is okay.”

Damian’s mouth gapes open for a moment and finally he snaps it shut, and the tiny - _ tt- _ of his tongue clicking as he shoves his face into his friend’s hair is the most wonderful sound Jon has heard all day. “...Thank you,” Damian mumbles after a moment, and Jon has to say that’s a close second. The boy scoffs again. “I must be spending too much time with you. I’m going all soft.”

Jon grins; mission accomplished. He feels his eyes begin to flutter and tries to hold them open. “’M a good teacher,” he jokes.

Damian draws back and readjusts them both so that he’s sitting flat on the roof and his friend is held more securely against him. “You wish.” He barely even hesitates before running a hand through Jon’s wild hair to push it out of his face, allowing a fond smile to play across his lips when the boy relaxes further and sighs, eyes finally losing their persistent battle to stay open. “Rest, my friend,” he says, still petting his hair. “I have you.”

Jon smiles tiredly and his head lolls towards Damian as he huddles closer into his chest. “I know,” he sighs, and a moment later he’s fast asleep.

Damian watches the sun set over Metropolis and sits on the gravel rooftop through much of the night, keeping watch over his best friend, listening to him breathe.


End file.
